Chapter 13: The Pull of Instinct

Damien

The city lights blurred past the windows of my black Jaguar as I drove through the evening traffic. One hand on the steering wheel, the other gripping my phone.

But my mind?

It was still in that office.

Still stuck on her.

Eva.

The way her shoulders tensed when I asked if she was a spy.

The fear in her voice.

The steel in her eyes.

She didn't crack. Not the way someone guilty usually does. I've interrogated traitors before—watched men who were seasoned liars fall apart under a single question. But Eva didn't fall. She didn't even flinch.

That alone was enough to make me wonder.

Not just if she was telling the truth—but why someone would want me to think she wasn't.

Certainly! Here's the revised first-person paragraph from Damien's POV, starting with "I remembered the footage…" and keeping the tone introspective and conflicted:

I remembered the footage—Eva alone in the archive room, her hand steady as she plugged in a flash drive. It should've been enough to fire her. Hell, in any other case, I would've done it without blinking. But something about it gnawed at me. It looked too clean, too convenient.

What if it had been edited? Doctored to frame her? I've seen people's lives ruined over lies dressed up as evidence. And despite everything… a part of me didn't want to believe she was guilty. Not her. Not with the way she looked at me—like she was holding back a storm.

I took a slow breath as I pulled into my underground garage. The soft hum of the engine echoed in the concrete space. I parked, killed the ignition, and sat in silence for a moment.

Then I dialed.

"Oliver," I said as soon as he answered.

"Evening, Damien," came her smooth voice. He was always calm, always composed. That's why I trusted him. "I ran your file. Eva Sinclair. Background came up clean."

"Too clean?"

"Possibly," he said. "No red flags. But no family photos. No childhood friends. Just a long chain of foster homes, scholarships, part-time jobs. Her records are in order. That's the problem."

I leaned back in my seat and stared at the ceiling of my car.

"Could someone have scrubbed her past?" I asked.

Oliver paused. "Not easily. Not without government-level help. Or… money."

"And motive."

"Exactly."

I frowned. "What about connections? Anyone from my past?"

"I looked. Nothing obvious. But I'm digging deeper. Give me 48 hours."

"Make it 24."

A short sigh. "Understood."

I hung up and ran a hand down my face. The chill of suspicion clawed at my spine.

Something wasn't adding up.

And my gut—it never lied to me.

20 Minutes Later – Damien's Penthouse

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

I poured myself a glass of bourbon, dropped two cubes of ice into it, and walked out onto the balcony. The city stretched below me—restless, glittering, alive.

But my thoughts weren't with the skyline. They were back in that office. In Eva's steady eyes.

"Are you a spy?" I had asked her.

She could've cried. She could've ranted. She could've begged.

But she hadn't.

"I'm not stealing anything," she'd said.

I believed her.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough to hold back the wolves.

Enough to question who had let them loose in the first place.

I sipped the bourbon, eyes narrowing.

Katherine.

I hadn't wanted to think it—but the moment her name formed in my mind, something clicked.

She had motive. She had the means. She knew how to manipulate perception. She always had.

She'd done it to Claire.

I remember that day so clearly—the way Claire stood in the rain outside my office, her hands shaking, her face pale. She'd just discovered Katherine had leaked personal details about her therapy sessions to the press.

Katherine had smiled when confronted. "It was a misunderstanding, Damien. A private conversation turned into a headline. That's not my fault."

But it was. It always was.

And now, she was circling Eva like a hawk.

Jealousy? Control? Fear?

Maybe all three.

I finished the drink and set the glass down.

My phone buzzed with a message from Oliver.

OLIVER: Found something odd. Will call you in ten.

I didn't wait. I called him first.

"What did you find?" I asked immediately.

"I cross-checked Eva's foster records. There's a sealed juvenile case from when she was fifteen. I don't know what's in it yet, but someone went through a lot of trouble to bury it."

"Who?"

"Still working on that."

I swallowed hard. "Dig deeper. If she's in danger, I want to know."

There was a pause on the line. "You like her, don't you?"

His voice wasn't accusing—just observant.

I didn't answer right away. "She reminds me of someone."

I ended the call before I said something I'd regret.

I pulled out the drawer in my study, revealing a small safe behind the books. The code clicked beneath my fingers.

Inside, I pulled out an old photo—Claire, smiling in a garden, one hand over her belly. She'd been seven months pregnant then.

She never told me what happened to that baby.

Grief had silenced her. Maybe guilt too. The only thing I knew was that she left the city and refused to speak to me again.

But Eva… her eyes…

So familiar.

Could it be?

I pushed the thought aside. No. Too dangerous to follow a feeling.

But I had to be sure.

If Eva was more than just an intern—if she had blood ties to me—then someone was working overtime to make sure I never found out.

And I would.

No matter what it cost.

Midnight

I sat on the edge of my bed, tie loosened, staring at the darkness ahead.

Tomorrow, I'd call the board.

Tell them Eva stays.

Officially? I'd say it was pending further investigation.

Unofficially?

I was keeping her close.

Not because I trusted her.

But because I trusted myself to find the truth—and protect her, if she needed it.

Then she will be mine too.

And no one—especially not Katherine—was going to destroy her.

Not again.